In looking back to The Syncopated Times of December 2016, it unfavorably impressed a few readers when I assumed and seemed (to them) to luxuriate in the role of Canary in the Coal Mine. My pronouncements, though not unrelated to jazz, were dire; in my assertion that we would possibly have some trouble getting along with each other I appeared to take on the colors of the opposition. One subscriber (already nine-months in arrears) declined to renew based on my supposed political leanings.
A canary can’t help being a canary, and he is absolutely the last bird in the world that wants subterranean employment. He is pressed into service for his vocal attributes and his likelihood of being the first to detect when all is not well in the realm of anthracite. We may listen for his cough or not; that’s our lookout. But there are days when he wishes he were a grackle.
I will pause here to say, on this twenty-first day of August, “Is it stuffy in here, or is it me?” If you can stand this closeness, fine. But, seriously, do you mind if I open a window? Also: do you mind if I turn off the radio, the television, and the computer? And let’s throw all these papers and magazines into the recycling bin (except The Syncopated Times, of course), and put on some music. There. Isn’t that better?
Since November, I have been drifting from bubble to bubble. There’s the bubble of sleeping
